Ashes to Dust
by Aimless Traveler
Summary: The world braces itself for the Final Battle as Team Free Will fractures and breaks apart, driven to desperation by an angel's fading grace and lost faith, the will of an absent Father, and a word of consent. AU, sequel to 'Measures of Reconciliation'
1. Prelude

_A/N: Hello, all! Sorry for the long hiatus; the season finale kind of took the wind out of my sails in regards to fanfiction, but I'm back now! Here's the seventh story in the 'Six Dawns' series (for a complete list, see my profile) and, per usual, will be AU, picking up in the middle of 5.16. Enjoy! _

_Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke, but these versions of Gabriel, Belial, and Ramiel belong to me _

"_He has cast me into the mire, and I have become like dust and ashes…"_

_-Job 30:19 _

_The heavens are ablaze. _

_So this is how it ends, she thinks, bleary eyes gazing up at the ripple of hellfire thrashing against the purer flame of the servants of the Almighty. Power and might mingles in the filthy air with so much bitterness and undulating hatred that she wants nothing more than to give voice to the sorrow that gnaws relentlessly at her soul. But she can't even afford that, she realizes through the haze of slipping awareness, because the veil shrouding her mind is as opaque and restricting as ever. No, lying here in the mud with shriveled wings staked into the ground and nowhere to go, she finds that she's even forgotten how to suit actions to intention; she has forgotten how to weep. _

_From far away, she hears the resounding roar of the Morning Star's defeat and the pain strikes her to her tattered core of patchwork grace and rapidly unwinding sanity. Her kinsmen have started up a chant, a cry of triumph to drown out the wails of the defeated and for one brief, blinding moment, when she closes her eyes, she can imagine that they are all singing out praise and adoration to their Father just as it had been before. Before brother turned against brother, before betrayal and loss, before the mass of a single, strong, and unified body became separated into the Fallen and those left behind to ignore the pieces of what had once been beautiful and holy and perfect. _

_She opens her eyes, blinking slowly like one rousing from a deep slumber in which one had been embroiled in a particularly puzzling and frightening dream – not necessarily a nightmare, but merely a series of visions over which one had no control – the type that was both miraculous and terrifying, a wild spiral of events that kept its audience captive until the very last act when those who had seen it all had no idea whether to sing praise or stay mute with shock and horror. _

_It's shimmering now, the ragged curtains of the torn firmament: a matted mess of angry, gaping wounds that spill forth voluminous clouds of black smoke and the shreds of those whose souls have been rent into irreparable fragments by their own kin. The tendrils that curl and coil into the air dissipate quickly, like a stain of breath upon a mirror before the naked eye and then the heavens are crumbling, crumbling, crumbling to nothing. She lets out a shuddering breath, lips forming wordless shapes as her mouth opens ever so slightly; she breathes in as her vessel's body necessitates, acutely aware of the struggle of punctured lungs rattling weakly against their cages of cracked bone. _

_The acrid inhalation of air is choking. Victory tastes like the ashes of Sodom and Gomorrah and the salt of sweat, the sharp tang of blood bursting over her senses. _

_A sudden cry pierces the air: wretched and desperate, without shame or abandon. Michael's vessel is wailing, she realizes suddenly, a keening, wordless groan that splits the smoldering sky as he cradles his brother's empty body to his chest and brushes trembling fingers against cold, pale skin. He says not one intelligible word but she can hear the way his soul twists in hate and heartache alike, can hear the depths of his soul screaming out a useless litany of no, no, NO, SAMMY, Sammy, Sammy-_

_The souls of both angelic vessels and those unwillingly taken by demonic possession are standing in the carnage now, an army of ghosts rising up on the battlefield only after the final blow has fallen and she watches them, observes them with neither disgust nor pity. She watches with glassy eyes, through the multi-faceted gaze of a being who had been created for the sole purpose of vision itself, watches the Righteous Man's heart shatter in a shower of golden shards and pinpricks of the red of blood. It is a macabre sight; a haunting depiction of vulnerability in its rawest state – and yet eerily beautiful at the same time, the sort of scene one hopes to never see again but would hate to forget. _

_Listlessly, her head lolls to the side, cheek pressing into the mud saturated with blood. It is not the first time she has seen this. In fact, it is far from the first time she has seen any of this, all of this. She simply watches, for it is her duty to do so, to see all things – and as the Prophetess has seen it, so shall it come to pass. And this is how it all comes to pass: no bang, no whimper, and no Paradise because all of Creation is burning…_

_Won't Father be proud?

* * *

_

"It's personal now, boys," Zachariah announced with a flourish, looking every inch the smug bastard he was as he sneered first at one Winchester, then the other. "And the last person in the history of Creation you want as your enemy is me." His head swiveled this way and that, silently daring either reluctant recipient of his clichéd monologue to disagree. And personally, Sam found himself thinking that he really would beg to differ, but hey – the two-faced douche just sent out a PSA revealing that he was actually a _four_-faced monstrosity with six wings, so the hunter wasn't all too keen on spitting out any smart alecky comments anytime soon, and mentally willed his brother to have the same discretion.

He really needn't have worried.

Dean grimaced. He could practically _feel _the beginnings of a bruise forming as blood vessels beneath the skin cried out their protest at the treatment, blossoming a spectacular tie-dye pattern in the shape of a fist. _But if we're dead, that means that there is no more blood. _He idly thought of the twelve-gauge shotgun slug unloaded into his chest at point-blank range and the few seconds of coldness overtaking his senses before the darkness descended. _Yeah, definitely no more blood. _Most people would have shuddered at reliving their dying moments (_ha, nice pun there_, a snarky voice in the back of his mind remarked), but he was a Winchester – he'd already been mauled to death by invisible hounds of Hell and had an archangel waiting to use him as a condom at his apparently inevitable consent – so yeah, all things considering, being held back by two lunkhead angels in a bad rendition of the climax of _Stand by Me_ was kinda…normal.

Well, maybe not normal, but it was just so predictably _Zachariah_, wasn't it? Taking cheap shots and strutting around like a friggin' peacock in all his glory while rattling on his victory speech. "And I'll tell you why-"

_Oh please, spare me,_ Dean groaned inwardly, for it seemed as if the other's mouth had yet to stop flapping. Even after a sucker-punch to the gut that had winded him (although the hunter would never admit it) and that display with Mama Winchester that had been just _wrong_ on all levels, Zachariah had yet to come across as anything other than the familiar grade school bully who ruled the playground through his size and intimidation. He was, quite essentially, a spoiled child who had been raised with a silver spoon in his mouth and whose issues stemmed from discovering that evidently, he wasn't such a special snowflake after all.

"Lucifer may be strong but me…I'm _petty_."

And wasn't that the truth, because for all his bluster and big talk, that was all Zachariah had in his arsenal: cheap parlor tricks and empty threats that couldn't and wouldn't ever measure up to the steel in Castiel's piercing blue stare (the one that could make even statues avert their stony gazes for fear of having done something wrong) or the undercurrents of thunderous rage Dean had once heard in Gabriel's even voice. The closest Zachariah had ever come to being anything more than a seriously annoying talking head was when he kidnapped and then dropped the elder Winchester off in that godforsaken mindfuck of a future – Dean had dreamed for weeks afterwards about Castiel, glassy-eyed and faithless, droning on about the dragonfly eye of group minded orgies – and even then, the only truly terrifying part had been the flashes of what could be as a result of his choices, not of what Zachariah could do to him, personally.

"I'm going to be the angel on your shoulder for the rest of eternity." _Well, I'm just quaking in my boots, _Dean smirked mirthlessly to himself. Funny, how the angel seemed to think a threat such as that would strike terror into the hearts of the pair standing before him. Sam and Dean Winchester, the ones who had been born into a cursed family, destined for a life of darkness right from the womb, the heirs of a prophecy neither ever wanted – oh no, their fears went a lot deeper than the prospect of a constant menace in their lives. After all they were boys who'd become accustomed to the elephant in the room even as children, and taken said elephant in stride as it changed along with the passing years: a yellow-eyed demon, a father who spent his life chasing both metaphorical and literal ghosts instead of loving his boys, a son who longed to be normal, and a boy who tried his very best to be everything as both a son and a brother but was never _enough_.

It was good to know Zachariah wasn't shortchanging himself in the pompous bastard department; if anything, arrogance was something he had in spades. Talk about delusions of grandeur. You know what they say: the bigger they come, the harder they fall, and Zachariah was most definitely overdue for a nice blow to the ego right about…now.

"He's wrong."

They all turned as one, necks craning and gazes shifting; eyebrows furrowing and raising on different faces as all attention focused upon the speaker who'd dared to rebuke in the most nonchalant of tones. A little girl sat on the kitchen table, swinging her bare feet without rhythm and gazing steadily at her audience through a sweep of dark bangs, big brown eyes fringed with long eyelashes. "Too many holes, she said in way of explanation and waved small hands through the air, graceful and flighty, like butterflies. "Trying, always trying to be the best, but you'll never get it right."

Zachariah took a step toward her, his face twisted into something dark and ugly. Well, even more so than usual. "_What_ did you just say to me?"

"You're unfinished," the little girl told the worn smooth wooden surface of the kitchen table with calm authority, her fingers tracing a pattern only she could see. Dean's mind whirled back to snatches of glorious summer days long past, of apple pie setting out to cool on the very same table, of big bear hugs and the warmth that only a mother's love could provide. "We all are."

"Stop babbling, stupid child," Zachariah snapped, brusque and impatient. The reprimand elicited a small giggle instead of the obvious desired effect and the angel crossed his arms, lifting his chin arrogantly as he looked down his nose. "Who was brainless enough to let you out this time?"

Sam blinked, taking note of the obvious defensive posture and the short tone, the curt words that suggested Zachariah was having a bit of a difficult time suppressing the urge to reach out and throttle his young challenger – but he didn't. The angel didn't make any move to close the scant distance between himself and the little girl, almost…almost as if he was afraid of what doing so might cause. A quick glance told the younger Winchester all he needed to know – the two suited lackeys were exchanging unsure looks; quick, nervous flicking of the eyes from their superior to the newcomer, from the big bossman to the little girl. Whoever she was, this child's authority (either that or the threat her presence posed) ranked even above that of Zachariah's. Dean too, seemed to have come to something along the same conclusion; if Sam knew his brother, the elder Winchester was already drawing parallels between the creepiness factor of this new arrival (who, quite honestly, seemed a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic) to other scary little girls, a la _The Shining_.

The girl smiled shyly, eyes glimmering with an unknown secret and an uncomfortable chill stole up Dean's spine because those eyes were suddenly too bright, and in them he recognized the gleam of a mind too far gone for anyone to reach or save. "You won't scream when you burn," she informed all of them politely, but she was staring straight at Zachariah, hands splayed against the surface of the table as she leaned forward, not once breaking eye contact. "And it'll be because you don't know how to."

No one knew just exactly how to respond to a statement like that, and what a sight it must have been: five grown men, all gawking in stunned silence at one little girl. Dark hair slipped over her shoulder as she tilted her head in a way that was just so _Cas_ and the recognition was even worse than Zachariah's fist to the gut. "Cloudy days and bubbles, misty eyes and lies…" She laughed then, a delighted tinkling sound to shatter the quiet and pointed with one dainty little finger. "_Poof_."

Several things happened in the next moment, and all of them all at once.

Heckle and Jeckle simultaneously uttered noises that sounded like "_meep_" before going _poof _indeed; Zachariah put on a rather impressive demonstration of how exactly to give oneself whiplash, staring blankly first at the disappearance of his henchmen before rounding on the little girl and snarling something that definitely was _not_ English (nor Latin, or Greek, or any other language Sam knew only brief snatches of); Dean tensed and swore under his breath – call it a leftover nuance or something from having practically raised Sammy, but the elder Winchester absolutely abhorred seeing children in danger. That being said, seeing Zachariah huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf and practically frothing at the mouth definitely set the alarm bells ringing in the hunter's mind – but Sam caught his arm abruptly, stilling his reckless forward lunge. Dean scowled at him, and his brother inclined his head slightly. _Look_.

"Now sister, what have I told you about wandering off?"

The little girl's fingers pulled absently at the collar of her rescuer's jacket, bare feet kicking harmlessly at the elderly man's thigh as she stared intently into the weathered, almost grandfatherly face with a mixture of innocence and guilt. "I shouldn't."

"That's right." The man set his young charge on the ground and she skirted behind him, wrapping her arms around his knee and peeking out with a wariness that reminded Dean of a cornered animal. He exchanged glances with Sam, and his brother shrugged one shoulder. What the hell was going on here?

Zachariah seemed to have composed himself, and he stared at the strange pair in front of him with thinly veiled disgust. "Can't you keep her on a shorter chain?" he groused, indignant. "I was in a meeting!"

"I'm sorry," came the immediate response, in a tone that didn't sound very sorry at all. "I need to speak to those two." And just like that, Sam and Dean found themselves drawn into the middle of a situation that was starting to make less and less sense the longer it dragged on.

"Excuse me?" Dean resisted the urge to snort. First the face of a lion, then the Big Bad Wolf, and now a marvelous impression of a guppy fish. Zachariah sure had some hidden talent for impersonating animals.

"It's a bad time, I know," the man continued in a placating manner. The little girl pulled impatiently at his trouser leg, pouting in a way that seemed to say _get on with it_ and one hand automatically drifted downwards to settle on her head. "But I'm afraid I have to insist."

Zachariah scoffed, and Dean's mind immediately thought _horse_. "You don't get to insist jack squat," he spat, rude and ugly, and Dean's distracted amusement quickly turned to sour. Great, just great. Here they were on the sidelines of an angelic pissing match, and not a clue what to do. Just another dash of that spectacular Winchester luck.

Instead of antagonism and challenge though, the other merely offered the slightest nod in polite capitulation. "No, you're right. But the Boss does. _His_ orders."

There was no mistaking the capital 'B' in the threat masqueraded as a reminder, and Zachariah paused, chest still puffed out in affront but his gaze cautious and appraising. "…You're lying."

"Says you, but not for you to know." As words spoken from the mouth of a child they tumbled out awkwardly, whispered haltingly past thin fingers pressed against chapped lips, not making any sense and yet carrying more weight than the Annunciation. "Father arrives on the wings of the unknown," she mumbled quietly, and it was a warning if Dean had ever heard one. She stood there, bare toes wriggling against the floor and one hand clutching tightly to her guardian's trouser leg, a poster girl for _Have You Seen this Child _billboards. But Dean knew that appearances were deceiving and kids said the darndest things...

"Cold wrath to burning ruin," the little girl said, and lifted a dark, thin arm to point straight at Zachariah. "On your head. _Very soon_."

The air shifted, displaced, and Zachariah fled.

* * *

_A howl rings out from the depths of the Abyss; a long, mournful wail that bleeds fury and betrayal and agony in dissonant tune with the rattling of chains and clashing of will against prison. The sentinels standing guard at the lowermost levels of the Pit shift uneasily, clutching to their weapons. They are on edge and tense, knowing that beneath the labyrinth of chains forged from hellfire and steel, behind thousands upon thousands of locked doors, weighed down under manacles and the entirety of Hell, the creature is raging. All the far corners of the Underworld feel the tremors of immense power and shudder, the torn souls writhing and screaming louder in a macabre chorus to the bellows of the beast below, and the demons turn their own terror into a frenzy, lashing out and stripping away with more fervor than before. _

_The creature has been locked away for thousands of years if ever a day, and it's only by the skin of their teeth and something perilously close to blasphemous faith that its captors have managed to keep it contained – but everyone knows that it will only last so long. An intricate web of traps and pitfalls, sigils spanning for miles and miles drawn in the blood of virgins and whores alike, a chain of wretched souls lashed together with entrails and barbed wire set aflame…and all of it will be for naught when the creature finally rises, because like Lucifer before it, it was captured and imprisoned for the sole purpose of breaking free. And break free it will, in a maelstrom of destruction and whirlwind of carnage, soon._

_Another roar cuts through a landscape riddled with fire and pain, rising above the din of torture, ripping through the foundations of the Underworld and Hell's Generals cringe. At least Lucifer rotted __**quietly**__ away in his cage while waiting for the End of Days. Any other soul, and the demons gladly scream back right into their weeping faces, mocking and spitting all the while – but the creature is fierce and unrelenting, terrifying and seared into the waking nightmares of every being in Hell, although the only ones that ever set eyes upon it exploded upon doing so. It is a nameless, faceless terror, and the only consolation is that the Dark was the one to claim it first, and not the Light. _

_Not like it matters, anyway. They'll never be able to control it. _

_The creature slams against the walls surrounding it, growling from within its being. It's chained so tightly that there's barely enough room for it to move more than a couple of inches, but it continues its relentless struggle, thrashing and straining, but not without tactical grace. Had it a corporeal form it would be bruised and battered and perhaps even bleeding, but it does not. Many mistake it to be a mindless beast of brute force, but deep in the creature's core, it holds close one single fragment of a thought; a shred of a notion for existence. A goal and a purpose that neither those Below nor Above could ever begin to fathom. Time is fluid in Hell, but second by second and millennia after millennia, the creature repeats the same whisper to itself over and over again like a chant, a litany…a prayer. _

_No one hears it. Or if they do, they don't understand. Of course they don't. Hell's language is one whose syllables are screams that stretch on for hours; it's alphabet is an endless stream of moaning and gnashing of teeth that make up an eloquent babble of despair and retribution, and then some. It's only natural that no one there understands anything even perilously close to hope. _

_So for now, the creature gathers its strength and waits because the time of judgment is coming soon. Very soon.

* * *

_

"This is…Heaven's garden?"

Sam was aware of the slight incredulity evident in his tone, but the younger Winchester supposed he could be excused for expressing a little bit of disbelief. After all: getting shot and dying, waking up to a roller coaster ride through old memories and a bunch of skeletons he thought he'd tucked safely away in the back of a closet, getting kidnapped by Heaven's biggest dick of an angel…yeah, it had been quite a long day, and nothing in his world was making any sort of sense right now. A little bit of clarification or confirmation could go a long way.

"It's nice…ish," Dean spoke up from beside him, and his voice was just as dubious. "I guess." _Don't want to piss off the nice old man or little Miss Crazy for Cocoa Puffs_.

"You see what you want to here," their rescuer supplied helpfully, gently setting his burden down on the ground. "For some it's God's throne room. For her and others," he nodded at the little girl who twirled once and then scampered off with a playful giggle, "it's Eden." He lifted his gaze then, as if taking in their surroundings for the first time; the chirping birds up above and buzz of insects. "You two, I believe it's the Cleveland Botanical Gardens. You came here on a field trip."

_Oh, that field trip._ Dean shook his head slightly, recalling memories of the _rattle-rattle-bump_ and unbearably hot interior of a school activity bus that smelled like spoiled milk and old gym socks, sweating against the cheap plastic holey upholstery and trying to look cool for pretty little Abby Messer sitting across the row and only half-listening to Sammy's excited, nonstop babble: _Dean, they've got a lagoon and a separate glasshouse for different plants and animals; do you think it'll be like a rainforest, except for being inside? There's a rose garden too, and a dry rock stream, like they have in Japan. And butterflies, too! I wonder if I can get a monarch butterfly to land on my finger…_

Sam, for his part, was busy taking in the current situation, assessing all parts of the here and now. There would be time for reminiscing later, although he'd had enough of flipping through old albums and supposedly wonderful memories for today, thanks very much. The younger Winchester took a closer look at the man standing in front of them – the kind eyes and weathered face, the gentle voice that somehow held an important sense of wonders seen and majesty beheld – and knew this had to be Joshua, the angel who spoke to God. _Well…supposedly, anyway._ "You're Joshua," he said slowly, partially a statement and partially a wary inquiry.

Thankfully, the other nodded, solemnly. "I'm Joshua."

"So you…talk to God."

Joshua smiled, kind and knowledgeable, softly correcting. "Mostly, He talks to me."

The Winchesters exchanged glances of relief mingled with anticipation. "Well…um, we need to speak to him. It's important." _Understatement._

"Do you know where he is?" Dean jumped in hurriedly. Follow the road, Castiel had said. _Check one…with some speed bumps and unplanned pit stops along the way, but still. _Find Joshua. _Check two._ Find out what the hell God had to say about the colossal shitstorm that His kids were cooking up while He was out of town. _And third time's the charm…right? _

"On Earth," was the matter-of-fact reply, and Dean leaned forward, waiting and expecting to hear the rest that was apparently not coming.

_Swell. So where on Earth is Carmen Sandiego? _"Doing what?"

A shrug this time. "I don't know. We don't exactly speak face to face. The only one who is able to stand in His presence to receive His word as Messenger is now…" Joshua stepped back slightly as the little girl reappeared abruptly, dancing between them, and lowered his voice. "…indisposed."

_His Messenger_. Dean felt the bile rise in the back of his throat as images of a vessel jerked up into the air like a hapless marionette on invisible strings flashed in his mind, pure grace exploding out of an archangel like white light, remembering the way Castiel shook in his arms as the angel's shaky knees gave out and he collapsed with a whimper, a nearly inaudible whisper of _"Gabriel."_ Worse still, he remembered the way the delirious nearly fallen angel had clung to him in the wake of many fever-induced nightmares, calling out for the brother he so obviously loved, a brother now forever lost because Lucifer was a heartless bastard who had no tolerance for reneged promises and broken contracts. Because this was the goddamn Apocalypse, and casualties were casualties, be it an innocent bystander who was just too curious for his own freakin' good or powerful archangel who willingly sacrificed everything for the sake of his dysfunctional, screwed up family.

And boy, did that hit just a bit too close to home for comfort.

"Well-" Sam started in earnest, knowing when to step up to the plate when his brother faltered. "Could you at least get Him a message for us-"

"Thoughts, but no head to fill them," came the solemn interjection, and both hunters glanced down at the speaker, who leaned against Joshua's leg, head bent intently over a child's creation; a play necklace of dandelions and pansies. "Words, but no one comes to receive." She lifted her head and looked from one Winchester to the other with wide eyes, fingers tangling nervously with crushed stems and dancing over wilted flower petals. "Vessels stand alone…but no one comes, and nothing to occupy them."

In that instant, Sam saw not a little girl but a drowning woman, eyes filled with sorrow and the endless chasms of the unknown. After all, the line between genius and madness was often all too thin to even matter, and omniscience stripped away even more than exceptional intelligence. Ultimate knowledge was meant for deities alone, and the gods above them, and God above them -

_There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you love, remember. And there's pansies, that's for thoughts… I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died._

- and apparently angels didn't get that, or were too pompous to care, and had gotten themselves their very own Ophelia as a result.

"You want Him to know." Her voice shook and Sam blinked, staring through a kaleidoscope and seeing two images at once: a woman sinking to her knees and shaking with uncontrollable tremors signaling an onslaught of forthcoming sobs; a little girl flopping to the ground in an unceremonious heap with an angry sniff. "And Father knows. Already. Knows all, all the time."

"Hush now, sister-"

"Doesn't care!" She suddenly shrieked, full of indignation and hurt. "Knows that the soldiers are ash, and that children lie, and of many that are lost. He sees, Father sees and I see, I see…" The mud smeared in long streaks over her bare legs; she hugged her knees to her chest and ducked her head, rocking slightly as she continued to mumble from behind the curtain of tangled locks. "Quiet now, no words or order or direction anymore…quiet everywhere, everywhere but in here."

_Uh. _Dean blinked and looked to his brother for guidance but Sam's brow was furrowed too, and not in the _hang on, hang on, I've almost got it; it's on the tip of my tongue_ sort of way, but in the _what the fuck is going on_ fashion the elder Winchester was sure he was mirroring. A bird screeched up above, but no one moved. No one dared to move, and Dean found himself breathing shallowly, almost as if he was afraid to breathe at all. The air was heavy with uncertainty, fear, but a certain sense of awe as well; the same sort of atmosphere that had faithful worshipers falling on their faces before the Oracle at Delphi, devouring the ancient scribbles of Nostradamus, and pausing to give a damn about what the crazy old man yelling out _prophesy, prophesy!_ in front of the Temple of the Lord had to say.

The unknown was mysterious and powerful, and never more so than when spoken from the mouth of those who could see what others could not.

"You'll have to forgive my sister," Joshua murmured as his charge whimpered and curled into an even tighter ball. He reached down to rest a hand atop her dark crown, only to pull back when the response was a shudder. "She upsets easily these days, and then it's as if she has no control over what she says." He gazed downwards, his gaze equal parts mournful and filled with pity. "Lucifer was not kind to her. But," the angel sighed, redirecting his attention, "she speaks the truth. God doesn't think the Apocalypse is His problem."

"What?" _Excuse me?_ "Not his _problem_?" Dean's tone echoed the little angel girl's from only moment's prior, full of incredulous disbelief and obvious affront. "I'm sorry, but _what_?"

"God saved you already." Joshua's voice was burnished steel, cold and sharpened to pierce past the legendary thickness of Winchester skulls. "He put you back on that plane. He brought back Castiel." At the mention of the nearly fallen angel, the angel child let out a quiet sob, but the other paid her no heed this time. "It's more than He's intervened in a long time, and now He's finished. Magic amulet or not, you won't be able to find him."

_Finished_. There would be no smiles at the end of this, because there was no way they could possibly bounce back from a blow like this. The words sliced through Dean like broken bits of glass and metal shavings, cutting so finely that he could literally feel himself bleeding out even before the pain registered; could feel the guttering flame of hope and faith dying in a horrible gust of cold bitterness. _Magic amulet or not…_

"Finished," the Prophetess mouthed, lips trembling against her fist. "I see. I see, I see no Father. No more."

* * *

_The amulet drops into the wastepaper basket with a hollow clang, a golden trinket tossed aside deliberately, vanishing beneath rubbish like rubbish itself. It's an ugly, terrible sight; an angel's shattered hope and lost faith, and she watches him curse his Father to the heavens, watches him flee from the Righteous Man's crumbling conviction, watches her little brother plummet from the heights and careen wildly toward a crash landing of fornication and drink and despair. _

_The two beings lunge at each other, two adversaries once brothers but now charging to kill and blood is spilt on the day of ruin, a fledgling Falls and there is no one there to save them this time, as they all storm on blindly toward the End of all things. No bugles sound for there is no time to mourn the dying or the dead; their bodies are stepping stones as more continue to fall by the garrison, by the legion, by the blade. And from an undisclosed, unknown, separate location, the omniscient and omnipotent Father stands watching, watching his children tear each other to shreds; his dear, beloved, __**stupid **__children who have got it all hideously, horribly __WRONG, and His heart breaks. _

"How is she?" The Chief Prince of the Host asked the Gardener quietly, wrapped in borrowed flesh and still as glorious as ever. In the Throne Room of the Lord, his golden wings brushed against the pillars of pure pearl and alabaster floors, all thousands upon countless thousands. The sun (light from the Most Holy of Holies) set his gleaming eyes afire, piercing through the false limitations of human limitations for the sake of the sister he sought out. There was no telling if the harm done had stripped away both her mind and portions of her grace.

"The presence of the vessels did upset her slightly," Joshua admitted quietly, no longer an elderly man in blue-collar work clothes, but now a broad-shouldered soldier standing guard over one of Heaven's most treasured daughters. "You must be gentle with her now, brother," he cautioned lightly, stepping aside to let his superior pass.

He was already moving away even before the other finished speaking, hurrying in the most dignified manner possible, yet even that didn't conceal the anxiety marring the being's perfect face. She lay sprawled on her back on the floor of the Inner Sanctum, limbs splayed haphazardly out to her sides, dark hair fanning her true vessel's delicate features. Her brow was contorted in pain from horrors that only she could see and saw without ceasing, strangely at odds with the bitter little smile playing across her lips. "My sister?" he tried, venturing closer, but not too close. "Ramiel?"

Dark eyes fluttered once, then opened and Ramiel sat up, reaching out trembling hands with a desperate cry. "Hurts, Michael," she whispered, and immediately, the most glorious warrior in all of Heaven stooped down without hesitation, gathering his sister against him and holding her close. "_Hurts_."

Her grace fluttered like a fading heart, wrecked and torn and irreparable, buffeting weakly against his in an anguished bid for comfort which Michael relinquished without a second thought. Lucifer's mark on the angel of joy's once pristine grace was a permanent stain of darkness, deeply entrenched with no hope of fading but Heaven's General cared not, focusing on reaching out to his damaged sister. "Tell me then," he murmured, with gentle and loving persistence. "Tell me what you see."

Her mouth opened and closed, puffing out small breaths of air. "Can't," Ramiel whimpered miserably, and her hands were small and shaking, so small inside Michael's larger ones. "Don't know how."

_The heavens are falling, she whispers, lying on her back and staring up at the cracks in the skin of the universe, at the firmament that becomes weaker and weaker each day. She reaches out and threads her fingers through the soft grasses of Eden, hearing the cries of battle pounding against the corners of her consciousness. _

_So this is how it begins: ashes to ashes and dust to dust. If God won't have us, then the Devil must._

_A/N: I have sincerely missed writing, as I'm flexing these muscles for the first time in months. I was pretty disappointed with this past season finale. In my opinion, it felt like the writers took the easy way out with some plot devices (e.g. Adam, the Impala saving the day?) This story will NOT be going the same route, and will include but also omit some aspects of the show's canon. All the same, I hope you'll decide to buckle in for the ride. Please review! _


	2. Premonition

_A/N: Thank you all for your reviews! Work for the summer is putting me off a weekly update schedule, but I'll be sure to post as often as possible (which may or may not end up being every other week). This chapter has very little of Sam and Dean, but hopefully it's still enjoyable! _

_Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke but these versions of Belial, Gabriel, and Ramiel belong to me_

No matter how small or seemingly insignificant, everything in the world has a purpose and a reason for existence, basis or justification for dredging up the courage to rise up and meet each new dawn.

Beasts of the field hunt for food and protect their young, traveling from place to place until the environment suits their needs; seeds land anywhere the wind blows and proceed to take root in soil, stretching upwards for sun and space; all inanimate objects are either created or cultivated in order to assist the efforts of living creatures in working toward some grander design. It is a procedure that is simple, straightforward, and easy to understand; even if they as mere animals and objects are incapable of comprehending and so simply go through the motions of existence: survive, live, and repeat.

Humans, however, with their higher thinking processes and sense of entitlement that seems to invariably come along with the ability to reason, just _had_ to go and make everything so much more complicated that it had to be, slapping labels on everything and attempting to put a name to every little possible motive: hedonists, philanthropists, scholars, scientists, philosophers – those who only lived to fulfill their own desires, or for the good of others, or for the enrichment of the mind or to discover the _how_ of why the human race existed, if not the _why_ -

When a man lives his life without reason, let it not be said he had nothing to live for, because such cause is there even in the womb; innate, crafted by a power unseen but omnipotent, by the hands of the same Creator who set time into motion and the universe spinning into existence. Each individual's purpose is a hidden gem, a secret buried beneath layers of societal constraints and one's own doubts and insecurities, to be discovered through the years in a slow burn or in light bulb moment of _eureka!_ realization. Some spend their entire lives searching in the most ridiculous or mundane places for even the smallest shred of purpose to claim as their own and while some find it, others never will.

But is the nature of intention meant to be as such? Is each being who ever drew breath and will do so bound fast to only one purpose in his life? What if it happens to be a goal that, once achieved, is of no further use? What if he loses all that gives him instruction and order, all that gives him justification? A soldier with no war to bloody his blade, a renegade with no cause, a prodigal son with no Father waiting with open arms, an angel with nothing to have faith in – what becomes of him then?

_He had been in Peru when he suddenly knew Sam and Dean Winchester were dead. _

_Standing in the Putumayo River with yellow water swirling around his ankles, Castiel had heard the cry of triumph – of _triumph!_ –burst through the spider web-thin strand of grace that still connected him to the rest of the Host, sharp and grating instead of how he remembered the beautiful chorus of the voices of his kin. Although he, like every other angel in Creation, was rendered powerless in attempts to locate the Winchesters, he had not so much flew toward where he felt a great emptiness hollowing out a corner of his soul as he literally threw himself through space and time, a blazing star hurtling blindly toward oblivion. _

_He stood in between the two beds, hands itching to reach out and smooth the rumpled bedspread, sharp eyes roving over the bloody holes so hatefully and purposefully punched through fabric and flesh. The younger Winchester had died almost instantly, the first round fired at point blank range splintering ribs and piercing through his heart in less than one second. Dean would have been the slightest bit mollified in knowing that his brother hadn't suffered. The elder Winchester, on the other hand, had not been so lucky. He had been thrown backwards with the force of the first slug, an ugly piece of metal that ripped through his right lung and ricocheted inside his chest cavity, causing unbelievable agony before a second deflated a lung, and third shot finally snapped through the aorta. _

_Castiel felt a strange, tight pressure in his chest. Slowly, he turned and sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, carefully unfolding his stiff wings out and away from his back, casting a dispassionate glance around at the room's meager surroundings as he did so. It was like any other old dingy motel room with its peeling wallpaper and dirty floors; the faint odor of nicotine and mildew hung in the air – but this one would forever remain in Castiel's memory as the one in which the Winchesters died. _

_His gaze strayed back to his charge who lay sprawled out on his back, limbs all askew. Castiel had seen the hunter's soul stripped bare in the rawest form, weak and vulnerable and even __**ugly**__ as the tortured torturer; yet it was this sight that made the foreign ache in his chest migrate slowly to his throat. Vanity and materialism were some of the elder Winchester's lesser sins, because Dean liked how he looked and he liked to look good – take the leather jacket or the Impala for example, as proof. Right now though, Dean looked a mess, all smooth plains and hard angles, hazel eyes still open and staring out emptily at nothing, not a defiant glare in the face of death, but an undignified blank and stupid half-lidded stare, like a sheep right before the slaughter. _

_It was pointless to sit and mourn, and it would have been equally useless to exact justice and vengeance on the Winchesters' behalf, but that didn't stop the angel from wanting to hunt down those who had done this; those stupid, __**stupid**__ men who had, in typical human fashion, thought that everything could be solved with bloodshed, who were so ignorant to think that bullets could stop the Apocalypse and put to rest a prophesy older than time itself. This was no time to be so emotional, and in truth, he didn't know why seeing the two men he had come to call his friends lying before him lifelessly made such anger swell in him, for he knew they would be back – not if they didn't know how to navigate Heaven though. They were probably just waking up in Heaven now, and, given their natures, not so much reliving their most wonderful memories with gusto as panicking under a careful veneer of bravado, as only those with the surname 'Winchester' could. They needed a guide._

_This was no time to act or be so…human. _

_Without thinking, Castiel stretched out and brushed his fingers carefully over Dean's eyelids, closing them over the uncomfortable stare before reaching over to where one tanned hand hung limply over the side of the bed, grasping it carefully and bring it to rest on the hunter's sternum. The angel stared for a moment at his own hand, at the slender digits attached to a square palm, skin marred with the pocks of thirty-some years and stretched over the knobs of knuckles and veins. But they bore no scars, no calluses from wrapping around the handle of a knife or brushing against the trigger of a gun. _

_He was a soldier, and yet had nothing to show for it. _

Anyone who could sing about dancing in the rain or preach about waiting for the storm to pass had clearly never endured a thunderstorm quite like this one. Raindrops didn't so much fall on heads as they pounded down upon the entire earth; not the large fat droplets that watered May flowers during the month of April, but the kind that fell fast and hard in sheets, often resulting in flash flood warnings or managing to absolutely drench any unfortunate individual caught outside to the bone, no matter how big of an umbrella they carried. It was the kind of storm in which even the most reckless driver actually went the posted speed limit, shoulders hunched up near their ears as they squinted out past the furious _swish-swish-swish_ motion of windshield wipers and still couldn't manage to see even five feet in front of them.

Mud was seeping in under his fingernails, squelching in the spaces between his fingers and Castiel stared at the bumps of his knuckles, white from the pressure of his clenched fists against the darkness of soggy earth. Rainwater plastered his hair to his scalp and ran in rivulets down his face, into his unblinking eyes and soaking every article of clothing he wore, adding at least ten pounds to the slight frame. But he didn't move, muscles locked and frozen into place because if he stayed still enough, he could feel the slightest wisps of his dead brother's grace in the rain, and if his missing Father was in fact omnipresent then maybe, just _maybe_ God was in the rain and maybe that meant He actually _cared_ in some form or fashion, and…and…

Anyone driving along on the interstate would've thought the hunched over, trench coated figure kneeling in the middle of the muddy field in the pounding rain all kinds of crazy, given the many varied definitions of the term. And for all of humanity's quaint little boxes and file folders of depression, dissociative identity disorder, manic-depressive disorder, schizophrenia, they had yet to answer one simple question: how to define a madman? For if those who are lost are those who have not yet found their meaning in life, would that make those who have lost their meaning mad?

_Dean's eyes were fixed on the floor as if he was afraid to look the angel in the eye and his voice was uncharacteristically solemn as he told him that yes, God had full knowledge of the coup the angels were orchestrating; yes, God had indeed saved the Winchesters and resurrected Castiel – the angel had gotten at least those parts right, brownie points for him – but sorry, the supposedly power magic amulet was a dud and the Big Man wasn't about to swoop in for a big literal Deus ex machina because He just really didn't give a damn. _

_Castiel, as expected, didn't take the news well. Cue the five stages of grief. _

_Denial: "Maybe…" And goddamn it, the angel's hesitant tone was doing a great job of making Dean feel even more like a fuck up, even though technically, this wasn't his fault. Technically, this wasn't anyone's fault, save for God. "Maybe Joshua was lying." _

_The was leaning heavily against a part of the tacky interior, leaning as if he didn't have enough strength to stand up straight, even though Castiel's default setting was usually always ramrod straight. Like a good little soldier standing in line, waiting on orders from the Highest Superior. Well, what to do now when it was the superior officer who'd turned tail and fled? There was very little that could be done about a Commander in Chief who abandoned his men and deserted his soldiers (read: children). _

"_I don't think he was, Cas. I'm sorry." _

_Of course Sam would be so apt to believe in the disappearance and apathy of another's father. After all, it wasn't like the example they had to draw from was exactly a stellar one. Dean watched Castiel's shoulders slump and his head sink, the picture of dejection – and it wasn't right. Never mind the fact that he'd already seen the angel die once (and in his arms no less), never mind that Castiel had lost the one brother of his who hadn't been a dick: fading grace or not, it was Castiel's faith in a Father he'd never seen that kept Dean grounded, Castiel's resolute strength that gave him hope, Castiel's dogged determination to find God in order to set things right that had been the sole light at the end of what seemed like a never-ending, long ass tunnel. _

_In the end, it turned out that said light was a freakin' oncoming train. _

"_You son of a bitch." Oh, no. No, no, no – that was anger speaking now, and it wasn't any righteous fury or boiling rage, but a mere whisper that spoke of grief and pain and loss, a hiss of desolation and the raw scrape of betrayal. "I believed in-"_

_He sounded one step shy of bargaining now, and the look on his face made Dean feel like he'd just stepped on ten thousand puppies, or the angelic equivalent. Depression would come next, dark and deadly with little things at first, like small blue sleeping pills and aspirin, a bottle of beer and then another and then another. Worst of all though, would be when all of this solidified into acceptance – and as the cool, light weight of a flash of gold hit his palm, waves of amber liquor and prescription bottles of amphetamines danced mockingly in the forefront of Dean's mind, warping and twisting and destroying the angel, __**his**__ angel, his friend. _

_Cas, what the hell happened to you? _

_Life. _

_It's worthless,_ he had said, curt and callous and bitter, tossing the amulet back to the elder Winchester. It had been the personification of his faith for so long, an object symbolizing the hope that he was doing the right thing, that Gabriel's sacrifice had not been all for naught, that he was the slightest bit justified in slaying his own kin. That his rebellion meant _something_.

Apparently not.

The rain continued to fall, and vaguely Castiel became dimly aware of the fact that his skin was chilled, his teeth knocking together as he shivered, but the angel couldn't bring himself to care. _It's worthless,_ he thought bitterly, and privately, in the darkest recesses of his soul, he meant _then I've become worthless too._ His arms buckled out of their locked position and he bent double over his knees, curling gracelessly in an undignified heap on the ground, cheek pressed into the mud and missing his elder brother so very much because surely, _surely_ Gabriel would have known what to do in this situation.

_Father, my Father…why have you forsaken us?

* * *

_

_Loneliness is, undoubtedly, the most terrible feeling in the world. Why else would the Catholic Church reserve excommunication for only the most grievous blasphemies; why else would the penal system lock the perpetrators of the most hideous crimes away in solitary; why else would an animal shunned and ostracized by its pack face the inevitability of an early death? If animals are social creatures to be sure, and humans even more so, then what can be said of creatures who were created for the sole purpose of everlasting worship in the presence of their Father and all-encompassing communion with their kin? _

_One thing is for certain, though, regardless of skin or species or creed: those abandoned and left to fend for themselves all on their own often do not make it at all, and even more are those who emerge scarred, damaged, forever changed. _

_Roar upon roar echoes up from the depths and ricochets around the caverns of Hell like a hail of bullets, sending ripples of shockwaves in every which direction. One would think the inhabitants of the Abyss familiar with the din by now, very much in the same way one might become accustomed to a neighbor's little (or not so little) puppy who yaps and yaps like its life depended upon it until stupid o'clock every damn morning. After all, this has been going on for the past thousand years, give or take a couple centuries. But this, oh this is much more than mere barking, and the beast below is no mere dog. Even the hellhounds shy away from its domain, whining and whimpering in fright, mere runts cowering away from the wrath of a well and fully deranged Alpha male. _

_The chains are weakening and each day, each minute, each and every goddamn second, new ones are being made and being sent down a makeshift assembly line to wrap six times around the prison box holding a being more savage than anything the Abyss has ever birthed to a chorus of screams and wails and spilt virgin blood before. More sigils are laid, more rituals completed, more spells cast, and sometimes the demons wonder if it wouldn't have been a better idea to let Heaven have the beast after all. Let the angels and their rings of holy fire and fancy little harps and haloes have it; see if they can do any better. _

_Some of the big guys up at the top are discussing possible extra security measures, and have been for several years now (Hell's bureaucracy is even messier than all the red tape up on Earth, and the difference in fluidity of time just makes it worse.), because even though they know the beast __**is**__ going to force its way free sooner or later and said prison break will mean advancement in the next stage of the Apocalypse, many of them are still nervous as to what that means, exactly. Such is the structure and hierarchy of Hell, paying lip service to the common goal and all sorts of holocausts, while secretly looking out for one's own neck – very much like any sharply dressed politician with warm handshake and toothpaste commercial smile, pearly white teeth sharpening into knives the second your back is turned. Everyone in the Pit with the slightest bit of power has eyes on the back of his, her, or its head because those who don't have the aptitude for it or learn how to do so certainly don't survive long enough to merit any mentioning._

_A healthy sense of paranoia doesn't hurt, either, and as of late, paranoia has been running even higher than usual, because something is happening, and everyone can feel it. Hell is trembling and Heaven, oh so far away and yet in the dream of every single damned soul, sweet and beautiful and full of peace so exquisite that it's worth killing for, Heaven feels it too, and shivers in return. Earth is and has always been the no man's land, the dark alleyway back behind the school where the two races intend to meet and exchange blows, and so it's no secret that Creation's getting the brunt of the damage now – tremors from underneath the ground that have nothing to do with tectonic plates, rivers drying up until their beds resemble the Sahara no matter how much rain falls, waters turning a suspicious shade of crimson – but none of it is an offensive from either side. No bowls of wrath from Heaven or swarms of locusts from Hell, because they will come soon enough…but these disturbing signs are cracks in the skin of the universe, reality unwinding itself, Creation coming undone, and no one knows who or what is responsible for it. A new contender this late in the game is unsettling, to say the least. _

_The beast howls again, full throated and unintelligible, as if it senses the discomfort of its captors, responding in straining and pulling with renewed vigor. It thrashes and writhes, lashing out at the walls of its prison and screams with something like a voice…and impossibly, one single chain link soaked in the sins of a billion souls shudders – and breaks.

* * *

_

"You know, there aren't many who really understand the duality of a sin so beautifully simple and exquisitely complex." The voice was smooth, polished and refined, the type that curved its lilting accent around sweet nothings whispered over a glass of red wine and wrapped around the syllables of seductions of the flesh, of the mind, of the soul. "You see, it's not _just_ all about sex. It's simply been misconstrued by prudes and religious fanatics." The speaker tsked, shaking his head in mock hurt. "It's a tragedy, really. Exaggerated concepts, abstractions of the human mind – you go all out for one little weekend at Sodom and Gomorrah, and suddenly everyone is typecasting you as the one who'll someday invent the magical blue pill for all the sad middle-aged wankers out there who can't get it up anymore."

"Just keep on talking, old man," Brady sneered, the desired effect ruined only by the blood that dripped from the empty cavern where his nose used to be. "I'm not scared of you," the demon spat, his words muffled and near unintelligible from…well, from not having any nostrils anymore. "You can stand there and try talking me to death, but that doesn't change the fact that you won't get _anything_ from me." He grinned wolfishly, and blood dribbled down past his lips, painting his teeth. "You're off your game, _my lord_."

The title was a slur, spat out with an oily mockery of deference that was certainly worse than being shown absolutely no respect at all, in that special way that only teenagers and demons were especially skilled. It was a brash challenge, and of course, it was also totally a lie. Brady certainly could bluster up a wild storm, but of _course_, it was no match against the discernment of the master of all falsehoods. And besides, it wasn't all that difficult to tell the demon was bluffing, if the rank stench of fear that filled the room was any indication.

"Don't you know it's terribly rude to interrupt, old sport?" The glow of a cigarette's embers briefly illuminated a pair of cold eyes as part of a devastatingly handsome profile; they narrowed in annoyance before darkness swept their owner up in shadow again. "I once toppled gods and kings alike with a single thought. I took down the champions of God's chosen people without lifting a finger: Samson and Delilah, David and Bathsheba. The Whore of Babylon? _My_ idea. Hmm…should've copyrighted that one." Sleek, black Tanino Crisci Lillians squeaked only slightly across the concrete floor when the man turned to face his captive with a scoff, very much in the same way someone would stare disgustedly at a piece of rubbish they'd dug up from the back of the closet before tossing it away. "And just look at what I've been reduced to now; questioning a little catamite who isn't nearly half as fun as they all say he is."

Brady flushed hotly at the softly spoken words, anger choosing to make itself master of his mouth. "I was wrong. Just listen to you, going on and on about old times and the wonders of yesteryear." he snarled and tossed his head back with a derisive laugh. "You're not just off your game, Belial. You're fucking _obsolete_."

"Obsolete, am I?" The Lord of lust murmured contemplatively, striding forward majestically, slinking low like a cat of prey waiting to pounce. In slow, languid movements, he stubbed out the cigarette on his tongue, tossed it away with a flourish, and sauntered in a circle around the demon bound to the chair and trapped inside the sigil of the Second Prince of Hell. The horsemen's handler couldn't suppress a flinch as Belial leaned down gracefully, lips brushing his ear, and the superior demon smiled, saccharine and pleasant and scarier than Hell itself. "Well then, why don't I show you just how _fucking_ obsolete I can be?"

"You'll be damned, Belial!" Brady screeched at quite an impressive decibel, jerking away at the feeling of a tongue dragging against his skin. "You already are! You're helping the Winchester idiots and for that, Lucifer is _never_ going to let you die!"

"I'll be damned?" Belial chuckled, and the sound was soiled silk scraping over broken glass. "I thought I already was." He shrugged carelessly. "Semantics. And as for my lot with Lucifer…" He caressed the other's face gently, lips twisted in amusement when Brady squirmed and tried to pull away. "Didn't know you cared, old sport. Or maybe you're just worried you'll miss out on some of the fun?"

"Get your hands off of me!" Impressive, Brady's voice was now at about the pitch bats' ears worked. "I'm not your little angel fuck toy!"

It was, beyond a doubt, the stupidest thing to say.

Belial froze, and slowly straightened, all masks and pretenses falling away. Gone was the suave and debonair gentleman of the night, gone was the lecherous grin that reminded many of an evil genius standing by the wayside rubbing his hands together in sadistic glee, gone were all the suggestive remarks and all manners of flirtation. "No," the demon said coldly, simply. "You're not."

* * *

The desert sun raged, scorching everything down below into shriveled, withered husks of their former glory or magnificent imitations of lobsters: bright red and boiling in the heat. A dry wind funneled in from the east, billowing through the canvas tents that provided poor shelter from the extreme surroundings, picking up tiny grains of sand and flinging them everywhere – against faces, into the linings of clothes, against the grimy lids of eyes that squinted against the merciless rays.

The soldier crossed his legs languidly, knocking back another swallow and letting his eyes rove over the seemingly deserted army base. Usually around this time, some of the men would be passing around a pigskin or swapping stories of girlfriends or perhaps the wives and little ones back home, the horrors and atrocities of the events of the day – or past week or months or year – fading in the familiarity of a drink with the guys. Right now though, it was just too damn hot to do much of anything. He leaned backward in the starched canvas chair, bringing the lip of the bottle to his chapped lips and gulping down a mouthful, grimacing a bit at the tepidness of the cheap beer, but what else was to be expected in the fucking desert? Beggars can't be choosers.

He gently set the emptied beer bottle on the ground and crossed his arms over his chest, eyes heavy-lidded with heat-induced drowsiness surveying the swirling sand and burning horizon of the harsh environment, always vigilant and attentive, for those simple qualities all too often meant the difference between hobbling home with a stump where an arm or foot used to be and being shipped back to the States in a wooden box. Grey eyes flickered back and forth, unblinking and unusually sharp for the slight, pleasant buzz that the consumption six or seven beers usually instigated, watching. Waiting.

The air was electric with the implications of what was to come, pregnant with anticipation and adrenaline and the slightest hint of dread, as all of those bound by duty experience. A drop of sweat trickled down his temple and down the side of his jaw, clinging to a grimy and three-day unshaven face, suspended in time. The soldier let out his breath in a slow hiss, fingers tapping out a steady staccato against his arm. He licked his lips; the air tasted of copper and gunpowder already. Inhaling deeply, he took one more glance around him at the relatively peace and quiet, before letting his eyes slide shut-

-and opening them to chaos.

Fingers now curled around the devastatingly familiar lower hand guard and pistol grip of an M16 assault rifle, he twisted out of the way of a random spray of gunfire and lunged for meager cover behind the last remaining wall of what had formerly been a house, grunting as his shoulder bore the brunt of the impact before hauling himself up into a semi-crouch, one hand scrabbling at the hand grenades strapped to…somewhere. From the other side of the wall, there came a telltale high-pitched whine and the soldier ducked at the last moment as the world exploded in screams and debris. Sand and grit flew into his mouth, tiny granules coating his tongue and he spat into the dust, unsurprised when the spittle came out tinged with red. _Damn it._

Welcome to Heaven, according to David Alexander Owens. Although, if one really wanted to get technical, it was more like Purgatory. Even though the Catholic Church had suddenly decided that such a place apparently didn't exist (anymore). Go figure.

He'd been on this mission before, to a tiny little town in the middle of nowhere, Iraq – and he remembered each and every man he'd lost, their names and faces: how Jon talked nonstop about the wedding his fiancée was planning back home (_she was pregnant too, Jon carried around a book of baby names with him everywhere. He'd died with it in his breast pocket as he bled out, staining the pages red)_; how Tomas had one hell of a ridiculous snore (_it sounded like a cross between a lawn mower and a poodle sneezing, but couldn't compare to the noise he made when trying to breathe with a piece of a fucking roof beam jammed in his chest_); the way Jack bounced around like a stupid kangaroo or a college kid hyped up on too much caffeine (_and he was just fresh out of college after all, a good kid with a huge heart that only stopped when he jumped in the way of a sniper's bullet to save a little boy_); the miserable tears streaking Ian's face when the toddler he'd pulled from the wreckage of a collapsed building died not more than ten minutes later (_he himself died exactly the same way, two weeks later. It had been a hero's death and that was all David wanted to remember about it.)…_

There had been more, oh, _so_ many more. He could have saved them. And now he had a chance to do exactly that, to relive the mission and correct his own wrongs, to make everything right again, to not fail his men, to-

A hand on his knee startled him out of his mental recitation of his own personal mission statement, and suddenly there was a woman kneeling beside him, a crown of daises woven through her hair and a small, pleasant smile on her lips. "Found you," she laughed in delight, reaching out with a delicate hand to push the rifle out of the way with considerable strength. He let her do so without much fuss; he was too busy being confused.

_The hell? _David stared. He didn't remember this part. The woman looked as if she could have been an inhabitant of the little town, for she was decidedly Middle Eastern in descent. But not with that dress she was wearing, and the last time he'd seen a daisy like the one she was currently ripping the petals off of had not been here in the desert, where it seemed like nothing grew at all and everything only met its death. "Who are you?"

She merely tilted her head in return, and absently, David registered that the noises of battle and death had stopped, leaving only an eerie stillness. "David, David, David…you and he are so very much alike," the woman said softly, reaching out toward him, fingers ghosting over his cheek. "The shepherd boy who slew a giant and became a king." She took a daisy from her hair and pushed it into his empty hand, twining the stem around his fingers. "The captain who crafts his Paradise to save others."

It hit him suddenly then, where he'd seen these bottomless eyes before, albeit a little more lucid the last time they held his. "It's you," he whispered, in awe. "_Ramiel_."

Her smile was wistful now, and he wanted so very much to draw her into his arms and whisper that it was going to be all right, that it was all going to be all right, that everything was going to be okay, because he'd never seen a sadder smile. "You have to finish it," Ramiel told him, with all the quiet conviction a woman dressed in a nightgown in the middle of the Iraqi wilderness _in_ a soul's mindscape of Heaven could muster. "Your duty is not yet done. He needs you."

"Who needs me?" David asked blankly, but the woman turned away, her eyes fixed on the rapidly darkening horizon with an expression akin to fear.

"The trumpet rusts," Ramiel said, voice trembling ever so slightly. She got quickly to her feet and David followed, looking in the same direction she gazed, at where the far stretches of the landscape were starting to bleed black, ink strokes leeching into the expanse of the sky that had suddenly become like parchment, old and yellow and curling up at the edges. "It waits to sound, but can wait no longer."

Without warning, she turned back toward him, grabbed the sides of his face, and kissed him, lips blazing against his forehead as a brand of protection, an order, a blessing. Under his feet, the world fell away and all around him reality collapsed, and there was nothing but pain, pain, _pain _like every cell of his being was on fire, like every fiber of his being was being remade, like being born again. He couldn't move, couldn't writhe in agony, couldn't even see what was happening to him. So David did the only thing he could:

He screamed.

* * *

"Sister," the archangel whispered, both horrified and oddly pleased that Ramiel still remembered how to dissolve a portion of the fields of Paradise through sheer will alone, and in the time she had. His little sister had always been a quick study and incredibly bright. "What have you done?"

The angel of joy gazed down at the torn flower petals and scraps of David Alexander Owens's afterlife in her lap, head bowed and sifting through the embers with her fingers. She shrugged, still stubbornly silent as she had been since Joshua found her again and Michael sighed, taking to one knee and crooking a finger underneath the other's chin. He knew full well what she had done, and why she had done it. But she should not have, for the one she sought to save had disobeyed Heaven's will and committed treason of the highest degree. Those who did so were punished, whether they be friend or foe, human or angel, brother or sister. "Ramiel, look at me." This was not how Michael would have preferred spending one of Ramiel's more lucid moments, for the moments when her mental faculties seemed a bit more composed than the wrecked mess Lucifer had reduced them to were few and far in between. "He has not been spared judgment, and he cannot be saved."

"He will be."

"He will not."

Sullen dark eyes met gold and Ramiel jerked away from her elder brother's touch. "See what I see, then!" She snapped, flinging a handful of ashes into Michael's flawless face. "Our brother will rise up from the Pit, and the Messenger of the Lord will speak once again."

The angel of true vision's words were thunder and prophesy, and even the Chief Prince of the Host dared not argue.

_A/N: Thanks for reading; please drop a review! _


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